


You're A Hit And Run

by geckoholic



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Developing Relationship, Dick Grayson is Batman, Hurt Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pre-Flashpoint (DCU), Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-08-14
Packaged: 2019-06-17 07:25:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15456276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/geckoholic/pseuds/geckoholic
Summary: Jason miscalculates on the job and Dick shows up to save him. Somehow, Jason keeps showing up to save Dick after that.





	You're A Hit And Run

**Author's Note:**

  * For [xserenity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xserenity/gifts).



> You requested Dick!Bats era, Jason helping Dick out and subsequent blossoming feelings, hurt/comfort, and feel-good fic. Now, I'm not quite the right writer if you're looking for feel-good, but I hope you'll enjoy this regardless. Also, sadly this is not the 20k slow build fic with a full resolution that the prompt deserved, but, you know. Real life.
> 
> Beta-read by pentapoda and beta-lactamase. Thank you!! ♥ All remaining mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Title is from "Your Love Is Like A Car Crash" by Blue October.

Jason knows something is very, very wrong the moment he lights the bomb's fuse. Either one of his suppliers sold him cheap stuff for the full price or he messed up the chemicals, but one way or another, the spark on the ruse is too bright and too sudden, and the material burns up too fast. The flame races towards the bomb and that shouldn't be the case. It means his timing is shot now, and that's kind of a problem, because he timed this whole operation on the dot. Just enough time to get out and make a run for it before the whole warehouse goes boom and, _fuck_. He drops the ruse and the lighter and runs, runs as fast as his feet can carry him, runs for his life.

But he set the bomb on the opposite side of the huge warehouse, and he's not fast enough. He almost makes it. _Almost_. It's about fifty feet to the large double doors leading outside, and then there's a sick kind of deja-vu, the loud noise of the explosion behind him as familiar as the pressure in his lungs when the air gets pushed out of the building, sucked into the fire in a chain reaction. Jason stumbles to his knees and pulls his head in towards his legs. If he'd had any inclination for that, he'd pray, but as it is he just mumbles curses under his breath, tries to decide whether it'd be better to leave the helmet on or get rid of it. He tries to ignore the heat, so intense it singes the hairs on his lower arms. He tries to ignore the memories coalescing in the back of his mind, because if he lets that happen, he really is screwed. He needs to think. He needs a way out.

From memory, he conjures up the blueprints of the building. He'd set the explosion close to the lab they sealed off with a thick glass front in a corner of the warehouse, so that even if they'd manage to salvage the building they'd need to get new equipment before they can start cooking that shit again, at which point Jason would just blow it up once more, rinse and repeat. But that means seeking shelter in the lab is not an option, and anyway, that would have just delayed the inevitable – he'd have choked to death on the smoke, made more toxic by the drugs stored in here.

The air is getting hotter, painful to breath in, and it belatedly occurs to Jason that that shouldn't happen. The helmet is supposed to have a filter, and if that's not working, there's a chance it's cracked. He feels around the rim of the metal, and yup, sure enough, there are the sharp edges of a split at the back of his neck. That thing is useless and he pulls it off, throws it into the fire with feeling, a childish gesture born out of desperate frustration.

His lungs hurt, each futile breath making the pain worse, and he looks around. He left the double doors open, so that's not going to be a problem. Nope, the problem are the two large wooden pillars that have come off the ceiling and fallen down between here and the doors. Not impossible to climb, sure, but they're smoldering. He'd burn his hands, knees, or feet in the process – his suit is good, but he's no damn fireman – and he didn't bring is grapple gear to cross them that way, didn't expect he'd need it here. A dumb mistake, and now he's trapped.

And if that weren't enough, he can hear sirens in the distance now. Even if he makes it out alive, he'll run straight into the arms of Gotham's Finest if he exits through the literal front door. Behind him, there's nothing but fiery hell.

Shit. _Shit shit shit._

But, no. No way. He's not going to die here. Not again, and not like this. That's a bit too much irony, and he refuses to become a cautionary tale. _Bad bats have their wings burned off, if not the first time around then surely the second._ He still has his guns, and if he has to shoot his way through the police outside, then that's what he'll do. At least he'd still be alive. Everything else can be dealt with later.

The last thing he expects, in that moment, is a gloved hand on his shoulder. He flinches and reels around on instinct, filled with mindless panic, hands going to his holsters.

Dick retracts his hand immediately, holds it up to signal friendly intent. Through the cowl, Jason can't see his eyes, but he's smiling – stupid asshole is standing in burning building and smiling at a guy who tried to kill him twice _this month_ – and his lips are moving, even though Jason can't make out the words over the ringing in his ears from the explosion. He points at his ears and grimaces, and Dick nods, reaching for his arm again, then points up at the ceiling. Yep. Shooting a line to the cross beams that hold up the roof. The most obvious solution, and something Jason could have done himself if he'd _brought his fucking gear_. From there they can get to the roof and away. Chances are that's how Dick got in here in the first place.

Making eye contact, Dick steps into his personal space, snakes an arm around his middle, and from up close Jason can see that he's sweating, see him breathing hard; the heat is affecting him too.

The smoke is getting thicker. They don't have much time.

"Where'd you get in?" Jason asks, scanning the roof for the best exit points. It's dotted with skylights, and Dick nods to one nearby. At a second look, squinting to make out the details through the rising smoke, Jason can see that it's broken, the shards lying on the warehouse floor, punching in from above rather than blown out by the explosion.

Dick shoots up the line and then pulls them up, and it's muscle memory to press in close against the network of supporting beams under the roof once they're up there, feel around for purchase. Jason finds a crossbeam and clings, weaving himself into the space between that and the roof.

He nearly forgets he's not alone until he senses Dick falling, seeing it out of the corner of his eye and whipping around, watching as the foothold Dick found gives way under his weight. Jason moves on instinct, but he’s too late in reaching out a hand. Dick's movements are a bit too slow, too, sluggish with exhaustion, and he quite literally slips through Jason's fingers. It wouldn't be too much of an issue – they all know how to fall and Dick is the person who _taught_ it to most of them – but he hits his head on another crossbeam going down and crashes to the floor with all the elegance of a sack of flour. He lands among the debris with a loud thumb, barely able to roll out of the impact, and ends up laid out on his side, motionless. Jason counts to five in his hand, and, when he still doesn't see him move, he balances himself around the crossbeam and wrenches Dick's grapple free.

There's a moment, up there with the grapple in his hand, where Jason considers bailing. A few weeks ago he was ready to shoot Dick. What difference does it make if he leaves him here, to either suffocate or burn to death? But Dick came here to save him. It wouldn't be right. Jason's got some honor left in him, and abandoning someone who risked their own neck for his sake, that's beyond what even he'd be able to live with afterwards.

He jumps down, one hand covering his mouth because this close to the ground and the fire the air is getting thick with smoke, and assesses the damage. Dick's dazed, breathing hard, but he's awake, tracks Jason's fingers when he holds them up in front of his face. His pulse is a little erratic, but strong. He's moving, too, writhing, and that's a good sign insofar that it shows he can move all four of his extremities. Their most immediate problem is a small piece of rebar protruding from Dick's shoulder – likely the primary source of his pain for the moment. Not too much blood, which can mean one of two things: either no blood vessel was perforated, or the rebar is sealing off whichever vessel it pierced. That's a risk they'll have to take, however – the alternative to removing the rebar is leaving him here, to either suffocate or burn to death.

Dick screams when Jason yanks the piece of rebar out of the wound, which tampers off into pained whimpers when Jason pulls him into a sitting position. As soon as he's upright Jason feels underneath the cape, around both edges of the wound. The suit is wet with blood, yes, although it's a trickle rather than the heavy flow that'd require immediate attention. It does seem to have sapped much of Dick's remaining strength, though, because he's of little to no assistance when Jason hauls him up and wrangles him into a secure enough position over his shoulder that it'll allow him to shoot them both back up to the crossbeams. He clings to Jason, bunching the fabric of Jason's jacket between his fits, but his grip is weak, and he groans when Jason shoots the grapple and pulls them back up. It's not easy to find purchase again once he's below the roof, with Dick in his arms, but he gets it done due to sheer stubborn determination. He uses the grapple to pull them up close to the broken skylight and then pushes Dick through it first before he climbs out behind him. He considers checking Dick over for more injuries real quick, but fire and also police, and so he situates him over his shoulder and makes a run for it.

Jason is halfway to his safe house by the time he realizes that he could have left Dick near the building and made off on his own. There's time left to correct that mistake; he could still dump him literally anywhere, send a little note to the manor so the family could pick up their replacement Bat, and no one would be the wiser as to Jason's whereabouts.

He does no such thing. He takes him home.

 

***

 

Dick keeps hovering on the edge of unconsciousness until Jason's got him propped up on the ratty couch in his latest safe house, about to clean the wound in his shoulder. It's still bleeding a bit, and he got blood stains on the upholstery in the process of depositing Dick here, but ah, what the hell. Not like this goddamn dump is gonna be his forever home. Soon enough, he'll get the fuck out of here anyway. He takes a knife from his boot and removes the utility belt, cuts the upper part of Dick's suit in half, then carefully rolls it away from his body to reveal the wound. He sprays it with disinfectant from his first aid kit and then wipes the mess of blood and soot away with a handful of paper towels from a box situated on the backrest of the couch.

With a hiss, Dick suddenly stirs, one hand coming up to bat Jason away from his wound, and Jason stays him by grabbing his wrist. “Hey, hey there. I'm cleaning it so you don't get infected. It hurts, I know, but let me, okay?”

Slowly, Dick blinks his eyes open, and Jason can pinpoint the exact moment Dick recognizes him because his whole body goes rigid. That kinda stings, although Jason probably doesn't have any grounds to complain about such an obvious lack of trust. “Let me go. I'm... I.” He scrunches up his nose. “Actually, I think I need to puke.”

Must have hit his head pretty badly then.

Jason stands and hectically looks around the room, finds an old cleaning bucket he uses to catch the rain where it trickles through the roof. Dick bends over as soon as he sees it. He's groaning in pain at the movement, and damn near in tears by the time he straightens back up and collapses back into the sofa cushions. The sight gives Jason a twinge low in his gut; all of this is because of him. It's his fault.

Through half-lidded eyes, Dick looks at him, embarrassed. But at least he doesn't look so spooked anymore, and that... it's better, somehow. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then rubs away the moisture from the corner of his eyes with his thumb. “Ugh, sorry.”

“Your shoulder?” Jason asks, doesn't bother figuring out whether the apology is about the puking or the crying. He was just gonna clean the wound and wrap it, but if it hurts that much on such a simple movement, maybe the rebar messed him up more than Jason thought, tore a muscle or a ligament somewhere. “That bad?”

Dick shakes his head, grimaces instantly as that must jar his concussion. “Nope. Ribs. Might've cracked one or two.”

It makes sense; he landed on his side, and the impact could well have led to some fractures. “Anything else hurting?”

He actually seems to consider that, taking a moment to answer. “No, I don't think so. Head hurts, shoulder hurts, chest hurts. That's it.” As if to underline that, he groans again as he shifts and lays back more comfortably. “Why did you take me here, Jay?”

“Don't fucking call me that,” Jason sneers, because it's easier than answering the question. Guilt, maybe. Common decency. A random moment of nostalgia. Gratitude. Stupidity. Weakness. Courtesy paid to a stupid teenage crush. He doesn't know. “And don't bother coming back to this place once you summoned the cavalry from the nest. I'll burn it down as soon as I throw your ass out.”

Dick cocks his head, just a little bit. He smiles, and Jason is overcome with the sudden urge to punch him in his stupid, pretty face. See how his concussion likes _that_. “I don't have much of a cavalry right now. Bruce is dead. Tim doesn't believe it and ran off to fuck-knows-where searching for him. Damian is... Ah, the kid's trying, but we're still figuring each other out.”

It raises his hackles, that Dick's laying there, looking at him like that, and talking to him like they're friends. Like they're still family, and like they both can't remember how Jason had a gun muzzle to Dick's temple the last time they met. He might have carried the bruises from that fight for weeks; Jason sure did. He loved Dick once, but that was a long time ago. Things were different then. _Jason_ was different.

This whole thing is a mistake. Jason doesn't owe him anything. No one asked him to show up at that warehouse. Jason sure didn't ask to be saved. Not this time. Wrong warehouse, wrong fire, wrong Bat.

And yet Jason doesn't make him leave. He gets up, taking the bucket and the wad of dirty, bloodied paper tissues with him. “I should have some gauze in the bathroom. Be right back.”

Dick nods, shoots him another smile, and Jason rolls his eyes and goes to dig around for the gauze. There's several packages; that stuff isn't exactly in low demand with their line of work, they all need it more frequently than they like. He tries not to think about how strange and empty that smile was, how tired Dick looks, like he's running on fumes. That jives with his mishap in the warehouse. At his best, Dick could have saved himself. But he's far from his best. Jason has seen that before, out there when they fought or in the ever-present footage of Batman's good deeds. The weight of the cowl is recognizable. An all too familiar sight, though looking so wrong on Dick, edged into every line of his body, his face, dragging him down, and… it's none of Jason's business, really.

He strolls back out of the bathroom with an almost empty pack of gauze and a new, unopened package in one hand and the freshly cleaned bucket in the other, and drops the gauze where he stands when he catches sight of Dick.

In the couple of minutes Jason was out of the room, Dick has tried to heave himself off the couch. He sort of succeeded – he's currently on his knees in front of it, one hand hanging off the backrest and the other pressed to his mouth. Jason could swear he's actually gone green around the gills. He rushes to the couch, shoving the bucket underneath him and tries to hold him up, keep him from folding over, while Dick rids himself of little else than bile, stomach already all but empty from the last time. He looks up, and now he's actually got tears in his eyes. He's shaking and yet, he stumbles away, evading Jason's grip.

Jason's having precisely none of that, and due to Dick's current state, he doesn't even have to use much force to wrestle him back _onto_ the couch. “That was stupid. Why did you do that?”

Somehow, Dick musters up the strength to glare at him. “Really? You gotta ask? Don't tell me you're dying to keep me around.”

He's not, that much is true, but he also doesn't plan on leaving this score unsettled. Whether or not Jason asked him, Dick did show up to save his life, and Jason would much rather pay him back right now than continue to feel like he owes him. On the other hand, given their previous encounters since Jason has been back in Gotham, he does understand how Dick might not feel particularly safe on this turf.

“Look, call it nostalgia,” he says, holding up his hands, placating. “Or call it honor, but if you're worried that I might shoot you in your sleep or something, don't. If I decide I want you dead, I'll wait until you're back in fighting shape and we can meet eye to eye, okay?”

Dick still looks doubtful, but he nods. “Okay.” He groans, reclines his head so he's staring straight at the ceiling. “Once the concussion fades I'll be out of your hair. Give me a few painkillers, and I can deal with the rest long enough to make it home under my own steam.”

“Fine by me,” Jason says. He turns back around to retrieve the gauze and finally wrap Dick's shoulder so it stops bloodying up his damn couch.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Dick doesn’t fall asleep so much as he drifts in and out, either his shoulder or his ribs protesting with piercing pain every time he nods off and then inevitably shifts to get comfortable. The taste of bile lingers, bitter and acidic, and the too-familiar smell of disinfectants and gauze emanates from his skin, mixed with the lingering stink of smoke.

He wants a shower. He wants a real bed. The thought of moving, of getting up, however, makes him feel nauseous all over again.

He sighs, and his gaze falls to a ratty armchair next to the couch. Jason didn’t get changed yet, still wearing his soot and dirt covered uniform. His position in the armchair is awkward, and it looks like he nodded off while watching Dick’s fitful attempts at sleep. The thought brings with it an unexpected sting, a sensation of loss and grief. Dick misses Jason – misses another version of Jason, the one he thought he’d see grow up. His brother. The boy who inherited the title of Robin from him, ill-fitting and foreign at first, but he’d just started to get comfortable in the role of Dick’s successor when it was ripped from him. When he was ripped from them.

The man that came back is different. Angry. Brutal. Mistrustful. Dangerous. A criminal, a killer. Although Dick suspects it’s not the differences that hurt. It’s the similarities. And seeing that side of him again, grudgingly caring, made everything worse. It brought back all the pain and grief and regret.

Dick pushes out a breath through gritted teeth and heaves himself into a sitting position. It makes his heart race and his vision gets blurry around the edges, but he can’t stay here. He can’t go another round with the echo of the boy he knew, worrying whether the sudden burst of nostalgia is enough to keep him from pulling a gun on Dick again.

He turns and plants his feet on the floor, then stands up with a grunt of pain. Given their training there’s little to no chance that Jason didn’t hear him, wouldn’t have slept with one eye open like a cat, too aware of the unwanted company invading his space. But Jason stays silent. His eyes remain shut.

Dick can’t even begrudge him the farce; it spares them one hell of an awkward goodbye.

 

***

 

The manor is in an upheaval when he gets home, but it’s a rather moderate one; the current acting Batman being gone until morning is nothing new. Source for concern, yes, but no reason to fall into panic. Alfred sighs in noticeable relief and guides him upstairs so he can lie down and be examined. Damian sneers at him and books it, mumbling something about school, which translates to much the same sentiment.

After a shower and all wrapped up in a fresh set of bandages, Dick settles into bed. He swallows bitter painkillers and asks for last night’s police reports by the way of a bedside lecture. He falls asleep over them, the tablet slipping from his fingers. It’s the first thing he sees when he wakes up a few hours later, to an otherwise dark room, the screen blinking with an alert of some sort. Dick takes a long breath, screws his eyes shut, and sits up. The world sways around him as he swings his feet out of bed and tries to get up. He reaches for the tablet, curses under his breath when he reads the emergency message. He swallows down a fresh wave of nausea and puts on some clothes, then makes his slow and careful way down the stairs.

Alfred’s expression upon seeing him in the cave telegraphs disapproval, but no surprise. “Ah, Master Richard,” he says. “There’s a reason I didn’t come up to wake you.”

“I know.” Dick meets his stare evenly until Alfred frowns and calls the livefeed of the hostage situation in an office building in the city center up on the main screen. The attackers set an explosion and took control of an entire floor in the confusion that followed; it's a mess. “How many casualties so far?”

“Too many,” Alfred says, his voice threaded through with subtle sadness, still affected by the display of death and destruction even after so many years on the job. “But I’m told the police have it under – “

Dick shakes his head, glancing at the livefeed. That looks like a lot of things, but not like the situation is _under control_. “I need you to wrap my ribs again, tighter this time. And do we still have a few tubes of that numbing agent in the fridge?”

The frown on Alfred’s face deepens. For a moment, Dick isn’t sure whether he’ll follow the order, but he must realize that withholding his assistance wouldn’t keep Dick from running into the fray. It would just cause him more pain. For better or worse, that’s what Bruce would have done, and Batman not showing up to a crime scene that big would raise too many questions. Dick’s here to replace him. That’s what he intends to do; he might bend the rules here and there, give it his own spin, but he’s still supposed to keep up the ruse.

“Master Damian left just a few minutes ago,” Alfred eventually says, and his annoyance at the littlest Bat being as immune go common sense as its older brother is unmistakable. “At least let me call him back to keep an eye on you.”

Dick wants to snap that he doesn’t need a pre-teen for a babysitter, already hurt and cranky, but reason prevails. The kid _is_ capable, and they bonded somewhat at this point, enough that Dick knows Damian cares for his continued existence. He’s an asset. He’ll have Dick’s back without question.

“Fine,” Dick says, sitting down on the medical cot and smiling for Alfred’s benefit. “Now let’s go to work?”

 

***

 

Gordon looks him over with an expression that’s so close to the one Alfred wore in the cave that it almost makes Dick laugh. He doesn’t, of course; a smiling Batman seems to have been accepted around Gotham. A laughing one might just be stretching it too far. And in any case, Gordon knows better than to voice his concerns out loud.

He sighs, scratches behind his ears, and readjusts his glasses. “They’ve taken hostages and locked themselves inside. No demands so far.”

No need to explain that one; Dick has been on the job long enough, officially and otherwise, to know what the combination of huge destruction and lack of demands means. Negotiation won’t save this one. They want to see someone bleed, hear someone scream. Possibly spontaneous, no plan beyond the bomb.

Dick squints at the smoldering remains of the entrance hall. The building hasn’t taken too much damage, a behemoth made from steel and glass, and the bomb seemed to have been placed at random rather than strategically. The plate by the door still announces which businesses are house on every floor: banks, insurance companies, import-export offices. Due to the report, the attackers are holed up on the third floor now, which is home to a large, Gotham-based credit broker. Lending money always means good business in this city; it’s always in high demand, no one ever has enough.

The entrance hall is secured. The fire is under control. And yet, Dick has trouble breathing all of a sudden, the sharp smell of burning wood and plastic making his chest constrict, making the throbbing pain in his ribs worse. He can still feel the weight of the debris pinning his body into place, the smoke crawling up his nostrils –

“Batman,” Damian says, and Dick resists the urge to look around himself, look for Bruce. The name – title really – still doesn’t feel like it belongs to him. He’s rather sure it never will, if he’s honest. “Do we go in?”

There is concern in the kid’s voice, and guilt settles over Dick. He feels inadequate, undeserving. He feels lightheaded. His stomach churns. The nausea has made a comeback. Bruce never looked like he was about to keel over, right up until he was literally losing consciousness and crumbled in on himself like one of his family’s old buildings.

“You’re not. I am,” says a voice that sounds familiar, but takes Dick a moment to place. He turns around and then takes a step back, following an immediate instinct to place himself between Damian and potential danger. The red metal mask shields Jason’s face, but the motion of his head is so distinctive that Dick recognizes his eye roll anyway. “Oh, come on. I’m not here to hurt the baby brat. I owe you one. Your rules. Consider this payback, and from here on in we’re even.”

Dick finds himself the focus of three sets of expectant or questioning stares. Damian, confused about Jason’s arrival but ready to follow Dick’s decision. Gordon, stuck in that frown he always makes when he knows he should ask questions but doesn’t want to know the answers. And Jason, head cocked, waiting for an answer, his gestures bigger right now to make up for the inability to communicate with facial expressions.

A crackle of Gordon’s walkie-talkie gives Dick a respite. The commissioner steps away, apparently unwilling to share police information with a rogue Bat on top of two usual set, and gives Dick a small, almost fatherly smile upon his return.

“The lab identified the bomb maker,” Gordon says. ”She left a signature. Maybe you and Robin could check out her lair, see if she can tell us who we’re dealing with. I’ll forward the address to you.”

Jason doesn’t wait for an agreement or a go-ahead. He readies the grapple at his hip and strides toward the ruined entrance hall. Dick glances after him, and then turns back around to nod at Gordon. A hand on Damian’s shoulder, he ushers the boy back to the car, somewhat astonished that he obeys without discussion. All he does is give Dick the odd side-glance here and there, and the furrow to his brow looks suspiciously like concern.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

For the past three weeks, Jason tracked _Batman's_ nightly movements around Gotham every day. He didn't always drop in to help out – Dick is no wilting flower, he can handle a standard patrol while injured – but it still made for a rather significant shift in their, say, dynamic ever since Jason came back. Jason doesn't ask for permission or wait for a call for assistance that wouldn't come, and Dick glares and grumbles but doesn't send him away. Jason hasn't spent too much time reflecting on his reasons for such benevolence, learned to swim with the tide when it comes to his moods towards the family. He did, however, expect Dick to show up and demand some answers to that very question, explanations for Jason's swing from nemesis to helping hand; he expected him to show up much sooner, even.

He wouldn't exactly have put his bets on a knock on the front door one morning, while he's in boxers and a t-shirt and watching cooking shows on the old TV that came with the safehouse, but hey, he can improvise.

“Comin'”, he drawls, in his best Gothamite accent, the same one Dick never quite adopted and that Bruce despised with all his might.

He mutes the TV and drags his feet off the coffee table, pushes himself off the old ratty couch that still carries Dick's bloodstains, and trudges to the door. He sniffs, runs a hand down his face, and turns back around without greeting after he let Dick in.

Dick catches up, marches into his path and stares at him, brilliant blue eyes sparkling with mistrust and confusion. He assumes an agenda, a game, a ploy. And honestly, all this would be so much easier if Jason had one. It would make so much more sense.

Jason stares back, hefts an eyebrow, waves a hand between them like a drunk in a bar brawl. “Alright. Let's have it.”

The glare Dick gives him in return hasn't changed one iota from when Dick agreed to help train him way back when, tried and failed to keep his lingering annoyance with Bruce from seeping into his interactions with Jason. They never did have it easy. Anything they could have had would always have been bound to grow stiff and stale in the old man's shadow. And that shadow remains, even after Bruce's death, the difference being that it's now cast from Dick's own silhouette.

And Jason relents. Yields, concedes this round before it even started. He's so tired of the antagonism. He knows he can't ever go back, not fully, but it felt _good_ to be part of something again for a little while, even if he was shouldering his way in instead of being invited, needed, wanted. “Look, I know you've come here for an explanation, but, thing is, I can't give you one. I can't explain it.”

That stops Dick short; the glare makes room for a rather befuddled expression, and he lets out a long, slow breath. Surprised this doesn't have to be a fight, perhaps. Jason would like to claim there was a time when it didn't have to be, between them, when they were on the same page. But even when they used to be on the same side, raised under the same large, looming, bat-shaped wing, that wasn't true. They fought. And Dick always had a head-start that Jason couldn't gain upon.

He was so angry. He was so in love.

Maybe that's the reason. The explanation. Not just the _in love_ , but all of it. The whole reason why Jason got a shot at Robin was because Dick wanted out. He wanted something different, spat into the Bat's face and walked away, and now here he is: shrouded in Bruce's shadow more than ever before. Wearing his costume and codename, leading his company, living in his manor again, and now also raising his biological son.

Jason is still angry. It feels like that's his core characteristic these days, like he couldn't get rid of it even if he tried. And he hasn't tried. It's so easy. He was angry at Bruce, and Dick, at the whole damn world, for moving on when he was gone. For refusing to take revenge. But these last few weeks, something changed. He's not angry at Dick anymore, so much as that he's angry on Dick's behalf. He's still angry at Bruce, though, even postmortem, so there's a constant.

“You're turning into Bruce,” Jason says, less bite to his voice than he wanted. “He's gone, and he made you take his place, with all the baggage and the idiotic martyrdom that lead to his death in the first place.”

Dick whirls on him. “How fucking _dare_ you say that. He didn't make me do anything. It's our duty, my duty to – “

“ _Exactly._ ,” Jason spits back, interrupting him. “Duty. I know it's not what you wanted. And yet here you are, walking in his footsteps, carrying his legacy, and getting set up to die just like he did.”

“And why do you care all of a sudden?” Dick practically snarls the words at him, low and dangerous. “You wanted us both dead less than a year ago.”

He did. He wanted nothing more. He _thought_ he wanted nothing more.

“I...” Jason starts, then closes his mouth, chewing on his lower lip.

The gesture makes him feel vulnerable, transparent, and the fresh swirl of confusion and concern on Dick's face means Dick caught that. He leans in closer to Jason, an instinctive, caring instinct that should have shut off in Jason's presence long ago, and it makes something in Jason's stomach twist, and twist hard.

He tries again. “The cowl. It's changing you. It's breaking you down. And I couldn't stand to sit by and watch you become Bruce. You deserve better.”

Not like he's done much, by the way of keeping Dick _Dick_ , but he did what he could. He tried to help, take a small share of the burden away for a little while. Have his back. Give him space to heal and recoup.

Dick heaves a deep sigh. “What do you want, Jason? What is this?”

“I don't know,” Jason answers, truthfully. He unlearned how to read his own emotions, somewhere along the way. He just acts on them, and he couldn't begin to explain the tangle of old longing and new worrying that has curled around Dick's name in his mind over the last couple weeks, replacing the endless rage that lived there after he came back from the pit. “A second chance? A do-over?”

For a long moment, Dick just watches him. Then he chuckles, and his lips turn up into a slight, tentative, teasing smile. “A do-over? What are we, twelve?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Jason says, keeping his tone light, and smiles back.

Dick's mischief solidifies, briefly, before his expression sobers and turns more serious. “I'll tell Alfred you're on call. And you know the rules – no killing, no fighting crime with crime. Not while you're associated with us.”

“Gotcha.” Jason smirks and imitates a salute, but he, too, shifts back to earnestness after the joke. “Thank you.”

Dick nods, already half-turning to the door. “We'll see what you make of it. But for what it's worth, I hope this really is a new start. I missed you.”

He says it with blank honesty, not overly emotional or sappy, a simple truth. Jason can't quite bring himself to agree, to tell him that the same is the case for him, but it _is_ a start. Where it takes them remains to be seen.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [tumblr](http://lostemotion.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/spacenerdz).


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